


tumble dry

by sears



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Affection, Drabble, Kissing, Laundry fluff, M/M, Soft boys are soft, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sears/pseuds/sears
Summary: In a panicked attempt at reigning himself in, Taeyong notices something he has that the boy doesn't, and without thinking he blurts, "I have fabric softener."The boy looks up at him like he's got two heads, his eyebrows raised."Uh, if you need it," Taeyong clarifies.------





	tumble dry

  
It's 1am. Taeyong wears a worn pair of boxers with a hole at the bottom seam, blue with white stars, and he balances a full basket of dirty laundry against his hip. His floor's machine is still broken, he's out of clean shirts for work in the morning, and the nearest laundromat is three blocks away.

Taeyong would hardly look out of place in a laundromat with nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, if it weren't for the fact it was completely empty this time of night. After almost a week of having no time to do laundry, the shared machine finally kicked the bucket, chugging in a slow, mechanical death as Taeyong glared pitifully at his barely damp clothes unwashed inside.

His basket is full enough that on the walk over that he can use it to shield his modesty, at least.

He almost makes it out unscathed, but someone decides to walk in right as his drier cycle is about to complete-- because Taeyong's luck is absolute garbage, as it would seem. The boy who comes in looks to be about his age-- slim with soft, dark hair. He stumbles a little when his eyes land on Taeyong, who immediately crosses his legs in possibly the least demure manner, bony knees anything but graceful when he needs them to be. Taeyong is sure he isn't imagining the amused tilt to his mouth when the boy dips his head in a silent hello. He nods back, willing away the blush he feels creeping up his neck.

Taeyong forces himself to focus his attention on the buzz of the neon sign behind him, the light illuminating his shoulders electric pink, or the rhythmic thump of the drier tossing around his clothes. The zipper of one his hoodies, he assumes, is tapping against the barrel as it goes. The beat of it is off, but Taeyong still uses it, starts tapping his foot along with it anxiously.

His eyes end up back on the other boy once the stuttering rhythm of the drier gets lost to a lilting melody sung in half-mumbled falsetto. The boy has a beautifully soft tone to his voice, and he sings like no one else can hear him. If Taeyong weren't already exhausted, he'd bet it could lull him into a relaxed and peaceful sleep.

Perhaps it's because of this exhaustion that Taeyong becomes exceedingly distracted. Not just by his voice, but also his hands as they delicately pull apart his clothes, separating whites from color, delicates from denim. A soft looking sweater pops in static as the boy shakes it out, and the sound coupled with the tinkle of beads on the bracelet the boy has hung loosely around his wrist makes Taeyong shiver. He shifts in his seat to try and shake the feeling off, but the boy's singing turns into a hum of impressive tonal range, and then Taeyong's shivering for an entirely different reason.

In a panicked attempt at reigning himself in, Taeyong notices something he has that the boy doesn't, and without thinking he blurts, "I have fabric softener."

The boy looks up at him like he's got two heads, his eyebrows raised.

"Uh, if you need it," Taeyong clarifies.

The boy keeps staring at him like he's just declared he's not from this planet. Taeyong bites his lip and looks away, completely ready to be ignored and passed off as just another weirdo at the laundromat.

Which is why it's all the more surprising when the boy asks, "What scent is it?"

"Floral," Taeyong says, trying not to get into nerdy details about the individual notes and fragrances, nevermind the frilly name of the stuff he always buys. "Kind of sweet, I guess."

The boy holds his hand out expectantly and Taeyong walks over to give it to him, trying his best not to use the bottle to cover his crotch. If he's going to get himself caught in these kinds of situations, he needs to own it, not draw unnecessary attention to it.

" _Moonlight Paradise_ ," the boy reads off the bottle with an amused grin, once Taeyong hands it to him.

Taeyong shrugs, trying not to look as self conscious as he feels, and says plainly, "It smells nice."

The boy then gives Taeyong a full once over, as though he's imagining what the scent smells like on him. Taeyong's stomach flips at the implication, warmth creeping up his neck.

"Thanks," the boy says, handing it back to Taeyong after pouring some into his chosen machine.

Their fingers brush when Taeyong takes it from him, and he's distracted enough by the touch that he jumps when the buzzer of his drier finally goes off. The boy hides a sudden and abrupt laugh behind his hand, his unbidden smile so at odds with his otherwise graceful face. It's almost awkward, wide and bright, all teeth and gums. Taeyong finds himself immediately endeared, and wants to see it again. He ends up completely unaware of the easy smile it pulls from himself in return. If ever there were a thing to wipe the anxiety of being half-clothed in a public setting late at night, that smile would be it.

Reluctantly, Taeyong makes his way to his clothes, now fluffy and warm. He pulls his favorite hoodie over his head, and slips on a pair of loose jeans. Once he has them buttoned he turns to look at the boy again, who starts humming again very suddenly, seemingly fascinated with the neon sign above Taeyong's head. After loading up the rest of his clothes in his basket, Taeyong makes his way to the door, and then stops, hesitating before opening it.

"See you around," he calls out, turning to half-wave to the boy, his heart skipping when he gets a smile and a wave in return.

\---

He sees the boy again less than a week after the first time-- although he comes a bit earlier, and this time the place is busier. Taeyong figures it's sheer luck that has him two for two on these random encounters, his building living up to its less than desirable maintenance standards-- which means his floor's machine is probably going to remain in disrepair for the rest of the year. And if that's just a convenient excuse to make the walk to the laundromat instead of climbing the flight of stairs to the floor above to sneak a use of their machine, then no one really has to know except for him. At least the laundromat has tumble driers.

Taeyong sends the boy a tight smile when his eyes lift and brighten in recognition. He's never been good at first impressions, always felt that people generally deserved more than a single chance at them. He usually comes off as too cold, or too aloof-- not like he means to. Often it's the exact opposite, wanting human connection but being afraid of the vulnerability behind seeking it out, his personality cowering behind a shuttered expression.

Still, despite being caught in his boxers when they met, the boy looks at Taeyong like his first impression was nothing less than charming. Maybe he just really liked the fabric softener, he reasons.

It's busy enough this time that when Taeyong fills up his machine, he realizes the place is short on chairs. There's a few still open, but his eyes hone in on the one next to the boy from the other night.

"Hi," he says casually as he sits, doing that uncomfortable thing where he feels the need to pull himself inward just to fit in a space that could quite easily accommodate two of him.

"Hi again," the boy says back with an easy smile, his hair hanging into his eyes as he lifts his head to look at Taeyong.

"Yeah," Taeyong says, to nothing and no one, his knee already bouncing anxiously. "I'm Taeyong, by the way."

"Doyoung," the boy says, reaching over a hand to shake. His fingers are long and thin, tapered at the ends with trim, clean nails. His palm is warm and soft, and Taeyong weakens his grip to seem less imposing. Doyoung's bracelet tinkles again when he pulls his hand back, and Taeyong has never once thought the bone of a wrist could be attractive until this very moment.

They fall back into silence, or what constitutes it in a place that is otherwise constantly humming -- machines tumbling, spinning, signs buzzing. The place is like a black hole of dying machinery, almost nothing new or modern. Even the people here seem dressed for another decade, mostly hunched into themselves in tattered house clothes.

Doyoung himself is wearing a pair of soft, peachy-pink pyjama bottoms with little white and blue elephants spread in a pattern across them. His hair is soft enough to tell of being freshly washed, and he's wearing slippers. Taeyong pulls even tighter inward, feeling every bit as arrogant as he's often assumed to be for trying a little harder than usual to dress nicely-- if nice means bare knees through artfully destroyed denim and the shirt he wears tucked in at the front that he knows makes his torso look wider than it is. Glancing every so often to his left makes him wish he'd shown up in the same hoodie he'd walked out in last time-- fuck it, even the same boxers. He'd fit in better, at least.

"I've never seen you before," Doyoung says, dipping his head to catch Taeyong's eyes. "Did you move nearby, or..."

"No, I live east of here. My apartment's machine broke down."

"Oh," Doyoung says, and that tiny little note of disappointment seeping into his voice is definitely not something Taeyong should be holding onto as much as he does.

"You sing," Taeyong declares, as if Doyoung somehow isn't aware. "Your voice is nice, I mean. Uh, yeah."

Doyoung snickers at him, hiding it behind his palm. "Thanks. It's why I usually come here later than... this," he says, gesturing at the mass of people around them. Taeyong once again finds himself thanking a higher power that he chose today to come early.

"Why are you here now then?"

"I've been banished," Doyoung says, leaning back with a pout into the chair. "Roommate's girlfriend is over."

"Oh," Taeyong says, "Do you have somewhere to go?"

Doyoung shrugs. "It's nice living in the city, it never really sleeps."

Taeyong can't help but pity Doyoung, mostly for the fact that he's hiding out in a busy, overly hot laundromat when he could be comfortable at home. The thought of him walking around town in slippers and adorably comfy looking pjs makes Taeyong want to wrap him in a blanket and keep him indoors.

While Doyoung loads up the machine that finally frees up for him, Taeyong skips outside to buy them each a small cup of hot chocolate from the coffee vending machine. Doyoung takes it with a quiet thanks, and then makes an odd face once he tastes it.

"Is it bad?"

"No," Doyoung says, taking another sip. "I was just expecting coffee.

"It's too late for caffeine," Taeyong says, nudging the side of Doyoung's fluffy slipper with his foot.

Doyoung snorts into his cup. "It's never too late."

Taeyong tsk's and mutters, "Bad habit."

Doyoung reaches over and flicks Taeyong's ear, not hard enough to hurt, but the sudden touch is a surprise. Taeyong jumps and in the process spills a bit of his hot chocolate onto his favorite pair of jeans.

"Oh, fuck," Doyoung says, wide eyed in almost comical sorrow.  
  
Taeyong waves it off, says, "It's fine."

"I'm so sorry." Doyoung licks the pad of his thumb, leaning into Taeyong's lap to wipe at the small stain near one of the rips above the knee. Taeyong's heart seems to beat a single, echoing pulse when Doyoung's fingers spread over his thigh, his thumb brushing against bare skin by accident.

"Take them off," he says, and Taeyong chokes on his own breath. "I'll wash them, I'm gonna be here anyway."

"You don't have to," Taeyong mutters, his voice unusually tight.

Doyoung turns to look up at him, not moving away from his lap. "Are you really going to make me beg you to take your pants off in public like this?"

A small old woman to their left makes a very unsubtle noise of disgust, which only ends up making them both grin at each other.

"Come on," Doyoung says, slipping his thumb beneath the tear he was rubbing at. Taeyong's stomach jumps hard enough that he nearly spills his drink again.

"Alright," Taeyong says, after clearing his throat. Doyoung doesn't move his hand, and he looks at Taeyong like he's just figured something out about him, something important. It doesn't quite make sense, but Taeyong has never been very good at reading people, and for some inexplicable reason he thinks Doyoung is probably a good judge of character.

Taeyong takes a newly warm and fluffed pair of sweatpants from his drier once it finishes and goes to the bathroom to change out of his jeans. When Taeyong hands the jeans over, Doyoung adds them into his washing load and increases the time.

"I'll be here next week," Doyoung says, regressing back to his apologetic expression. "I can come early again, or I can bring them to your apartment sooner."

"It's okay," Taeyong says, glancing around the busy aisles and seats full of people still waiting for machines. "Later here is fine."

As Taeyong leaves he allows himself a moment to appreciate the fact that if he wasn't wearing a nice pair of jeans, Doyoung might not have felt guilty enough to want to wash them.

He takes that as a good sign.

\---

Arriving on time is difficult when you haven't agreed on one, but Taeyong doesn't mind the extra 30 minute wait. If nothing else it settles some of the nerves he'd built up walking to the laundromat. This isn't a date, and if it was it would be an embarrassingly awful one, but still-- there's a weighted tension Taeyong can't seem to shake. It feels illicit, almost. Maybe because of the late hour, or maybe because Taeyong can still feel the phantom brush of Doyoung's hand against his thigh.

Doyoung eventually shuffles in, his eyes brighter than they have any right to be at this hour. It's just the two of them again, surrounded by the quiet hum of the building, and the warm, lingering scent of clean laundry. Doyoung says hi and then immediately dumps all of his laundry out on top of one of the machines, pulling out the jeans from another bag at the bottom.

It the process of upending all of his clothes, Taeyong notices a white lace bra sticking out beneath where he lifted the jeans from. He lifts the garment, holding it up with a quirked brow.

Doyoung turns an incriminating shade of pink, snatching it quickly from Taeyong's hand.

"Obviously that isn't mine," he grumbles.

" _Obviously_ ," Taeyong repeats, turning to sort through his own laundry on the machine right next to Doyoung's. To keep his mind from wandering too far off, Taeyong thinks about why the bra might be there, and asks "Doing your roommate's girlfriend's laundry too?"

Doyoung shrugs, says "It's better than letting it sit on the floor."

He tosses the bra in with the rest of his washing load, and Taeyong has to resist the urge to lunge at it to stop him, already picturing the lace crinkling, the elastic wearing away from the band. He tells himself that if he thought Doyoung cared about the girl he might tell him not to put delicates in the machine-- may even show him how to properly hand wash a garment with non-abrasive soap, standing close to guide his hands-- but if it's weird to have a random bra in your basket of laundry, it's probably even weirder to _not_ have one and proclaim to know the best way to wash them.

Taeyong figures blaming his sister for the knowledge still might come off a little weird.

\----

They make a sort of unwritten routine of it-- every week, same day, always late. Sometimes the times don't exactly match up, but if either of them wait a little longer than they should, neither mention it. It's nice, having something to look forward to, something to make the chore less mundane.

Doyoung is like a warm light in a cold room, something that takes up the entire space but in a way that's nothing but comforting. It's almost frightening, Taeyong thinks, how easy it is to be around him. They fall into playful bickering; Doyoung develops a full blown habit of flicking or tugging on Taeyong's ear, and Taeyong is more than happy to taunt him into it.

And there's the singing.

Doyoung's half mumbled songs come out of nowhere almost every time, and Taeyong begins to pick up the tunes himself, starts muttering lyrics over them under his breath. There's a few times where Doyoung hears him, starts to grin and nod his head encouragingly, and they just run with it, letting it spiral out of them both just to see where it ends. If his presence alone is calming, then his voice is near heavenly.

It's too easy to forget they hardly know each other.

It's one of the days Doyoung shows up a little later than usual, trailing in half an hour after Taeyong arrived. It doesn't bother Taeyong to wait-- what does bother him is the very clear indicators that Doyoung's having a bad day, and that Taeyong has no idea why.

Doyoung's eyes are bloodshot, for starters, the edges of them red and sore looking. He could have just woken up, or he could have been crying-- it's hard to tell. The pronounced hunch of his shoulders and the weak smile he sends Taeyong's way when he enters makes it seem like the latter, but Taeyong has never been one to make assumptions like that.

"Okay?" Taeyong says, gently nudging his elbow against Doyoung's when he comes to stand next to him.

Doyoung nods. "Tired," he says.

Taeyong hums, and they leave it at that. The best thing he can probably provide for Doyoung is an uncomplicated escape-- even giving back a modicum of the comfort he exudes whenever he's around Taeyong would be enough.

They sit in the plastic chairs this time, with the same rumbling rhythm of the coupled machines, the same electric hum of the ac trudging along and the buzzing neon sign overhead. Doyoung takes a deep, bone-weary sigh and then lets his head fall to rest against Taeyong's shoulder.

Taeyong tries not to stiffen, and finds it alarmingly easy to just let it happen. It's almost as though they've been here before, like none of this is new. Doyoung lazily slides his hand onto Taeyong's thigh, threads his fingers beneath Taeyong's, and it's the easiest thing in the world to squeeze them once they've fit nicely together. If Doyoung needs to use him as a pillow for a while, he can do that. If he needs to silently seek someone else's touch or affection, Taeyong can be that someone.

They don't talk about it-- Taeyong figures they don't need to. Doyoung's shoulders seem a little less heavy as he leaves that night.

\---

Taeyong sits up on one of the machines, the late night settled into a silent lull outside. He kicks his heels, the thud echoing off the painted metal, and he says, "Sing for me."

Doyoung looks at him like he's a menace, one that he's entirely weak to. He's said before that he thinks Taeyong uses his ability to be insufferably cute to his advantage -- offhanded, like the unintentional admission didn't matter, though Taeyong has held onto it ever since.

After Doyoung has spent a sufficient amount of time pretending to ignore Taeyong, he begins to sing. It's an upbeat thing, soulful and melodic. Taeyong bounces his heels off the machine in time, begins to allow his body to move. He wiggles his hips, jostling the machine, his hands moving on their own above his head.

Doyoung's song is ruined by his smile, the way it overtakes his face the minute he catches Taeyong dancing.

"What?" Taeyong says over the beginnings of laughter, his own grin spreading.

"You're too much," Doyoung says, and he swats his knee with a warm and freshly dried shirt. Taeyong's developing some distaste for the sensation of hot clothes, smelling clean and full of static. It signifies the end of their time together.

"Hey," Taeyong says, his heart sinking a little when he sees Doyoung's laundry bag is almost full of clean clothes. He hops off the machine to tug on Doyoung's wrist and says, "Thank you."

Doyoung's brow furrows in confusion. "What for?"

Taeyong shrugs, his smile turning timid. "Being here? I don't know," Taeyong looks around them with a little _ah_  of an exhale, scratches the back of his neck to hide the discomfort at how easy it is to be this close to Doyoung. "For singing," he settles on.

Something happens then. Doyoung's eyes scan Taeyong's face, his expression curious. It's like he's reading him, or trying to, mapping out the lines on Taeyong's face and bookmarking the places he thinks he might want to come back to.

Taeyong still hasn't let go of his wrist.

He feels it before it happens, the thread of tension between them tightening. Doyoung takes the smallest of steps forward, tilts his head just enough and kisses Taeyong softly on the cheek.

And then something within Taeyong breaks.

Without really thinking about it, Taeyong pushes forward, a forceful nudge of his head that slides their lips together properly. And he does it again. And again. And again, until Doyoung's lower lip snags and sticks to Taeyong's when they pull apart, and Doyoung's eyes are dark and heavy.

Doyoung grabs either side of Taeyong's face to kiss him again, this time lingering. Taeyong exhales shakily from his nose when their lips part, when the kiss turns wet and soft. His hands tremble as they instinctively move to grip at Doyoung's trim waist, his grip bunching the shirt material as his fingers dig into his skin.

Taeyong can't seem to stop shaking, and he's thankful Doyoung doesn't seem to care, because he never wants to stop kissing him. His hands clench and unclench against Doyoung's flank, a rhythm born of a deafeningly loud heartbeat, a desperate attempt at holding onto something to keep from falling. Taeyong sinks his teeth gently into Doyoung's lower lip, and Doyoung makes a broken noise that Taeyong thinks he'll never forget the sound of. If he thought his singing voice was heavenly--

Doyoung leaps back from him when the creak of the door opening at his back startles him. Taeyong's heart is still pounding.

The man who comes in gives them both a funny look, and Taeyong clears his throat. His voice is still gravelly as he says, "Next week?"

"Mm," Doyoung agrees, and even the hum sounds breathy and winded.

\--

Taeyong takes to sitting on that machine, always the same one. Call it a lucky charm, but Doyoung fits nicely between his knees when he does, and it gives Taeyong some height over him. It means Taeyong can rest his arms on Doyoung's shoulders, balancing at the middle of his forearms, occasionally lifting his fingers to brush through Doyoung's hair. He can even wrap his legs around Doyoung's hips when he threatens to pull away to actually pay attention to his laundry, which just won't do.

And on the days when Doyoung comes in half asleep, the kisses get slower, less focused. Doyoung rests his head on Taeyong's shoulder, turning just enough to kiss Taeyong's neck, sighing against his throat.

"I want to see you tomorrow," Taeyong says. His eyes are forward, Doyoung's breath fanning out over his collarbone. His heart is pounding loud enough that he knows Doyoung can hear it-- can feel it.

"Okay," Doyoung says, and he lifts his head.

His mouth spreads into a wide, sleepy grin, his eyes still heavy. Taeyong kisses the side of his nose, under his eye, and then doesn't feel like moving away. He brushes his nose against Doyoung's for a second, then says, "Okay?"

Doyoung flicks his ear, laughs when Taeyong flinches back, and says, "I've been waiting for you to ask, idiot."

\---

It's 6pm. Taeyong wears a worn pair of boxers with a hole at the seam, blue with white stars. He pulls on his best pair of denims, ripped at the knees, and smiles as he thumbs the newly clean edge of one of the tears, no stain to be found. His floor's machine is still broken, but his clothes are washed regardless, and he feels just a bit luckier than usual.

**Author's Note:**

> literally no excuse for this
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://taeyongism.tumblr.com/)


End file.
